Rylan nodded, grinning at her, and said something too quickly in French. Her reply was equally incomprehensible, and he laughed, shaking his head.

As the waitress walked away, Kate looked at him with curiosity. “What were you two talking about?”

He unrolled a napkin and placed it over his lap. “I told her it looked wonderful, and she told me to let her know if you chickened out and wanted a sandwich.”

“Hmm.” Kate grabbed her own napkin, then glanced toward the waitress. “She forgot our silverware.”

“No, she didn’t.” He chose a piece of bread and tore a section off, using it to pick up some of what looked to be the chicken. “See?”

Oh. Suddenly, cleaning their hands made a lot more sense. It was awkward, but she ripped a bit of the bread and tried to follow his example. It wasn’t as messy as it looked, but it wasn’t particularly neat, either. “You know,” she said, “my mother always told me never to order French onion soup on a date because you’d make too much of a mess. Turn the guy off.”

Rylan looked as dapper licking lentils from his fingers as he ever could have in a fancy restaurant sipping champagne from crystal. He laughed. “Well, you officially have my permission to order whatever kind of soup you want to in the future. No need to impress me.” He popped his handful into his mouth, then swabbed the corner of his lips with his napkin. Shrugging, he said, “I like a girl who has an appetite. I like things that taste good. I don’t think enjoying things is a turn-off. Much the opposite.”

He looked at her expectantly. The whole time he’d been talking, she’d still been sitting there, gripping her sauce-soaked bread between her fingers and her thumb. Oh, well. Nothing for it. She took a bite and widened her eyes. The bread was spongy and just a little bit sour, the meat tender and flavorful. It was like nothing she’d ever had before, rich and sweet and delicately spiced.

“So?”

“It’s good,” she said, and it shouldn’t have been such a surprise.

“Here.” His smile had deepened into something unaffected as he tore off more bread and scooped up some of the vegetables. He brought it up to her mouth in offering. “Try this.”

It was so like what he’d done with the crepe the night before. Except instead of in the open air of the city, they were in a cozy little restaurant, no prying eyes but for the other patrons and the waitress, and Kate had nothing to hide. Not from any of them. She dipped her head and took the morsel from his hand. His eyes flashed dark, and a little thrill ran through her as he let his fingertips linger, stroking a slow curve along the bottom of her lip.

She swallowed, holding his gaze.

“I like that, too.” The way he touched her and looked at her and gave her exotic, foreign delicacies to taste.

His throat bobbed as she licked her lips. “Aren’t you glad you trusted me?”

And wasn’t that the question of the evening? Of the trip, even?

She hesitated. But she couldn’t deny the truth. “Yeah. I am.”

“Well, then.” He prepared another bite for her and brought it to her mouth. “Here’s to trying something new.”

chapter SIX

It was such a cliché—the ennui that settled in on a person when there wasn’t anything he wanted. Rylan had resigned himself to being a certain number of clichés. The jaded expat, the casual skirt-chaser. The lone wolf, hiding from the people who reminded him of who he’d been and what he’d walked away from.

Apparently, it was time to add another to the list.

How long had it been since he had wanted something—someone—so badly? Women fell into his bed. They amused him and pleasured him, and he made them feel good in return. But they left the next morning, if not the moment they were done. They didn’t get into his head. Not like this.

As he and Kate spilled out onto the alley, though, her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were bright, the long, pale column of her throat so smooth. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen her look so beautiful, and he wanted her. Desired her with a power that hadn’t possessed him in this long and lonely year—and that was what got him. His time in Paris had never struck him as lonely before. He’d never felt bored. But here, with this woman, on this night, all his diversions seemed to crumble beneath his feet.

And he couldn’t help himself. Before they could turn the corner onto the main street, he grabbed her shoulder, feeling high on good food and good company and the warmth of a beautiful girl. Emboldened, he turned her and pressed her up against the stonework of the outside of the restaurant. His heart surged behind his ribs as he closed his hand around her shoulder and crowded her up against the wall, chest to chest and mouth to mouth. It’d be so easy to sweep in and claim her the way he’d been longing to—

Alarms went off inside his head, and he stopped himself cold. This was too much, was the complete opposite of how he’d been working so carefully to coax her along. He darted his gaze up to her face, prepared for fear.

But no.

She put her hands on his chest, and her eyes were big and dark. She skimmed her tongue between her lips as her fingers latched on to his shirt. Ready for it.

Relief flooded him, washing away the final traces of his restraint. He tipped forward, pulse thundering as she opened to his kiss. Fuck. She tasted of sex and spice, and he wanted to taste her all over—the ripe swells of her breasts and the slickness between her legs.

He dared to let his hand drift up her rib cage, right to the point where his thumb brushed the outer curve of her breast. When she pulled away to gasp for air, he kissed his way across her cheek, burying his face against the sweet scent of her hair. He fairly growled, “You’re not going back to that hostel alone tonight.”

Laughing, she dropped her head against the stone, lifting one of her hands to run her fingers through his hair. “My roommates had sex last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pulled him to her lips and kissed him even more deeply.

It made him burn hotter, imagining her there, alone in a narrow, rented bad, listening to the noises other people made as they came. He edged his hand up higher on her ribs, asking between kisses, “Did it turn you on?”

She squirmed, but her hand on the back of his neck didn’t relax its grip at all. “It was embarrassing.”

“Not answering my question.”

“Maybe. A little.”

All his plans receded in his mind, making way for a whole new set of dirty fantasies. He pulled back enough to see her face. “Did you want to put on a show? While we watch them put on theirs? Is someone a little bit of a voyeur?”

“No.” But her cheeks were flushing. “No, but I’m not afraid to. If they don’t care, then I—I won’t care, either.”

And he could read it in her eyes and in her breath. She was simply waiting for him to ask.

The words were on his tongue, right on the cusp of spilling out. If he kissed her throat and sucked her ear. If he pressed his hardness against her hip and told her to take him home, she would. He could lay her out on those borrowed sheets in the dark and take her apart. In muffled moans and whispered instructions, he’d touch her and find out how she arched and what she’d shout. Press inside and take what he wanted, no matter who was listening, lying in their own beds on the other side of the room.

It would be so. Fucking. Hot.

But after, they’d be sleeping on a single bed, and the shame of it all would stay at bay only so long. She’d squirm, or maybe outright ask him to go, and no. He’d just awoken from his haze. This thing was temporary, but he wouldn’t doom it to a single night.

No. His plan was better.

He gripped the hem of her shirt in his fist and squeezed his eyes closed against the arousal that was growing too sharp, making it almost hard to think. “What if I had a better idea?”